


in your black heart is where you'll find me

by sleeplessmiles



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Season 2 AU, Vaguely Set in 2a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:56:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8154857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessmiles/pseuds/sleeplessmiles
Summary: Ward starts seeing Jemma everywhere he goes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this started when I saw that first look that Seth and Amaru exchanged (on _From Dusk Till Dawn_ , for anyone following along at home), and then the rest of Team Bus got involved, and the whole thing spiralled into, well. This. It should be fine to read even if you're not a person who gives a toss about Ward, because it's in that sort of weird, undefined middle ground.
> 
> Also, there's quite a bit of swearing. Just a heads up.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it!!

 

 

The first time Ward sees her, he’s in a club.

A fucking _club_ , of all places.

It’s hardly his scene. He’s never exactly had the time for idle socialising, only ever going to these hellholes for the purpose of a mission, and tonight is no exception; there are a million and one places he’d rather be. But there’s a prominent arms dealer making a hand-off here, a real Big Deal kinda guy, so Ward’s willing to make an exception. 

A disgusting, noisy, sweaty exception.

But he’s barely been there 10 minutes when he suddenly feels eyes on him, just a touch beyond intoxicated perusals, so he glances across the room and sees –

_Her._

Jemma Simmons.

Just standing there, staring directly at him.

Ward tenses. She’s dressed in the same sensible blouse and jeans she’d worn the last time he’d seen her, which wouldn’t be too disturbing in and of itself, if it weren't for the fact that the entire front of her shirt has been engulfed by an old, crusted bloodstain. The very same stain he’d watched spread out across her, _around_ her, as –

He swears. 

This is not good.

Even from across the dancefloor – separated by a pulsating, sweaty throng of people drinking, dancing, grinding – even from this far away, he can feel her hatred and accusations pierce him to his very core. The bass hammers through his body in syncopation with his racing heart, beating him down, reminding him, _mocking_ him…

Because even from across the dancefloor, even from this far away, he can see it. He can see _her_ , all fire and destruction personified. He understands the promise in her eyes with unwavering clarity.

_I will **burn** you._

She has never, ever been more intimidating, more threatening, to Ward than she is in this moment.

He can’t look away. Even if he wanted to, something in her gaze commands him, compels him. Promises pain if he so much as _dares_ to break eye contact. 

And God, if it isn’t working.

It feels like hours have passed when someone bumps into him, and he only takes his eyes off her for a second but when he looks back, she’s gone. Without a second thought, Ward’s pushing his way through the crowd, headed for the exit behind where she’d stood, needing to see her, needing to confirm, needing to fill the gaping chasm in his chest, needing needing _needing –_

He breaks free from the crowd, tumbling out the door and into the alleyway.

There’s no one in sight. It’s completely empty, deserted from end to end.

_Shit._

This is _really_ not good.

Running both hands through his hair, he tries to refocus before going back into the club.

_You’re fucking losing it. Get it together._

(The arms dealer never shows.)

 

 

-

-

 

 

The shittiest part of this whole situation, Ward contemplates as he fires off another round, is that he goes out of his way to avoid his old teammates these days.

That’s not to say that the whole petty taunting thing isn’t tempting as hell. Of _course_ it is. They’d held him in a goddamn windowless box for months on end, breaking a whole lot of UN conventions, probably, and – look. He has his reasons. And sure, he’d indulged in it a bit at the start, relishing in the furious looks on their faces, their irritation. 

Pretty fucked up way to get his kicks, is the only issue.

So he stopped. A clean break, he reasoned. Steer clear of their emotions, their baggage, their _everything_. Just for the time being, anyway. It had been remarkably easy to take jobs well outside the realms of SHIELD, so he’s just had his head down, doing his thing, sails pointed the hell away from his old job.

This situation, right here? It’s what he’s been actively avoiding. 

And yet here he is.

Here they are.

_Merry fucking Christmas, Grant._

SHIELD apparently isn’t fucking around today, bringing in all the big guns, but there are enough interested parties present at the old warehouse to distract them, allowing Ward the time to grab the crates he needs and haul ass out of there. Or so he thinks, until he rounds the corner and comes face-to-face with most of the team.

 _Damn it._  

He draws his gun, even as he takes stock of the situation before him – the team members present, those absent, those who think they’re being so incredibly clever by outflanking him behind the shelves and up on the landings. It doesn’t take him long to realise that he’s still in control here, as long as he plays his cards right. He clears his throat with a small, much-too-cocky grin. 

‘Agent May. You’re looking well.’ 

‘Hey! Don’t talk to her,’ Skye interrupts sharply, her eyes narrowed. She’s fidgeting with the gun in her hand, fingers twitching over and over, so he’s pretty sure she isn’t going to shoot him. Not today, anyway.

So Ward just shrugs, noncommittal.

‘Have it your way.’ 

‘Look,’ Coulson calls out, lowering his gun a little. ‘Just give us what we want, Ward.’

Ward’s eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘That how you think this is going to go down, huh? Me just quietly co-operating with everything you say?’ He huffs out something like a laugh, purely for the theatre of it all. ‘Those days are over, old man.’

‘Ward – ’

‘You know I’ve got the upper hand here. Don’t you, _Director?_ ’ Ward shifts his attention. ‘Tell him, May.’

May’s lips thin out in disgust, clearly conceding that he’s right. Ward’s own mouth pulls into a grin.

‘See?’ He lowers his weapon to point it at the crates by his feet. ‘So I think what’s best is that you all drop your weapons – ah-ah, slowly, now – or else your little project is going to go _kaboom_.’

‘Do as he says,’ Coulson instructs with a heavy sigh, even as he drops into a crouch and places his pistol on the ground. The others seem much more reluctant.

Ward tilts his head in question. 

‘Do I need to repeat myself?’

‘He’s bluffing,’ Fitz blurts out suddenly, forcing Ward to look at him - _really_ look at him - for the first time. The guy looks much like he had last time they’d been in the same room: poorly shaven, shirt untucked, hands shaking. But there’s one clear difference, and it has Ward instantly swearing under his breath.

It’s Fitz’s expression.

Ward knows the look well. The _I’m about to be a hero_ look; the one that used to be the bane of his existence. He feels a little of the resolve drain from his body.

 _Come on, man. Don’t do it._  

Coulson seems to be on the same page. ‘Fitz,’ he warns, voice pitched low. Fitz just gapes at his boss, looking rapidly between him and Ward. 

‘Wh- he is! Look at him.’ He gestures wildly at Ward, utterly without fear. Ward shakes his head.

_Fuck._

‘I bet there’s- nothing even in the c-crates.’

‘Fitz, stand down.’ 

Fitz whirls to face the new voice. ‘May, are you just going to – ’ 

‘ – C’mon, man – ’

_‘ – Agent Fitz – ’_

‘Okay, enough,’ Ward interrupts – or tries to, anyway. They barely even acknowledge his presence. 

‘Hey, maybe Fitz is right – ’

‘ – Skye, you’ve _got_ to be – ’

‘ – Is that so bloody – ’

‘Hey!’ Ward bellows this time, raising his gun into the air. If they won’t shut the hell up… ‘Quiet!’

And then –

He pulls the trigger. 

Grant Ward pulls the trigger.

By this point he’s discharged too many firearms in his lifetime to even count, so he’s pretty well-versed in how it’s meant to sound. Shooting a gun at the air echoes, the sound of the shot ringing about then dying out, and that’s pretty much it.

So when his shot is followed by a confused cry and a thump, his blood instantly runs cold.

Because the sound is familiar. He’s heard it before, so long ago but also so, _so_ recently. Hurtling through the sky, miles above the ocean, wind roaring in his ears.

That goddamn cry of distress; so tiny, yet so deafening. 

Oh _God._  

And much, _much_ too late, Ward remembers.

Jemma was up on the fucking landing. She’d thought she had a good vantage point. She’d been watching everyone’s backs – watching to protect them from _him._  

She’d been up there.

Right where he’d pointed his pistol. 

There’s a split second of breathless silence, then –

_‘JEMMA!’_

Fitz’s strangled voice rings out around the clearing, naked fear and horror lining the name, and suddenly he’s running for the landing, back brazenly turned to Ward but he wouldn’t fire even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t. Not now, not when disgusting, _disgusting_ knowledge is settling into his chest.

 _Jemma._

He fucking –

_– Jesus –_

Everyone is sprinting for the landing now, previous stand-off long forgotten and replaced by sickening cries of desperation. He sees May’s face etched into an expression of horror, but she takes a moment to meet his gaze before following the team to Jemma, and he knows. He sees it there.

She _will_ kill him for this. 

He needs to get the fuck out of there before she makes good on the promise. Before they all do.

So he does the stupidest thing he’s done to date. Stupider than all the fucked up decisions he’s ever made to stay alive, stupider even than letting it get this far in the first place.

Grant Ward runs _towards_ the sound.

**_(He shot Jemma Simmons.)_ **

 

 

-

-

 

 

The next time Ward sees her – still in those _same goddamned clothes_ – he’s in a stand-off.

Again.

It doesn’t even fucking matter, either. Hydra’s been hot on the trail of an ex-SHIELD member: some mechanical engineer or something, not that that’s too important to Ward. All he’s looking to do is work out what the fuck it is that Hydra’s doing, and get right in the middle of that. So he trailed the woman, pursued her, one thing led to another and now here they stand – at opposite ends of an old garage, weapons drawn. Not exactly a foreign situation to him.

Thing is, as much as it has its differences, it’s still almost identical to the standoff he’d had with his old team. The one where Jemma _died_. He’s trying not to read too much into that.

(He’s failing miserably.) 

‘Now, why does this look so familiar?’ Jemma says quietly from behind the closest car, her head tilted in mock consideration. He’s so used to seeing her mouth tilted up in a smile or terse with worry, so to see those lips twisted in distaste is a lot for him to process.

Not as much as the fact that the girl he killed is standing here, talking to him, but still. It hits him like a punch to the guts.

‘Well? What are you waiting for? Shoot her, Ward.’ She takes a few deliberate steps closer, leaving the cover of the car, and surely the engineer would say something if she could see her too, right?

Right?

 _(Fuck.)_  

‘Cut her down, just like you cut _me_ down.’

She’s right next to him now, already invading his personal space, and he’s mentally begging his target to say something, _anything,_ to convince him that this is real.

The woman only remains silent, weapon trained upon him.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck –_  

Leaning right in now, essentially crowding his body, Jemma narrows her eyes at the side of his face. Ward keeps his own gaze obstinately trained ahead. 

(Eyes on the target. No distractions. _Focus._ )

‘What is it? You’re not getting cold feet now, are you?’ Her words are so soft, so achingly gentle, and he could _swear_ he feels her breath feather across his cheek.

It’s fucked up. She’s not real. He’s losing his mind.

_He watched her bleed out._

‘You’re not real,’ he mutters, adjusting his grip on the firearm. She’s not. She’s _not_. ‘You’re dead.’

Jemma quirks a brow, smug satisfaction radiating from her every pore. ‘I am? Wow. I _do_ wonder how that happened.’

‘That’s not fair.’

Her demeanour changes so quickly that he almost staggers.

‘Life isn’t fair, Grant Ward,’ Jemma spits out, almost a snarl, and Ward’s had some hate-filled people fling his name around before but no one has _ever_ imbued it with such venom, such disgust. To hear that from _Jemma Simmons_ …

He feels sick to his stomach.

(Worse still: he knows he _deserves_ her ire.) 

‘So what’ll it be?’ the engineer calls out. Fuck. He’d almost forgotten about her. 

 _Focus, you piece of shit._  

‘Yes, Grant,’ Jemma taunts, bitterness and sickly sweetness all in one. When he glances across at her, her eyes are positively _aflame._ ‘What’ll it be?’

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to decide. The woman starts firing at him without warning, spurring him into action – find cover, return fire, _don’t get dead_. Allowing his muscle memory to kick in overrides all thoughts of Jemma, of the fact that he’s apparently losing his fucking mind, although his hands are just a touch too shaky, his focus just a few inches off, so the woman escapes with her life.

When the dust settles and he turns back, Jemma’s gone once more. It’s another few hours before he remembers a crucial detail.

_God._

He could _smell_ her.

 

 

-

-

 

 

The scene that greets him up on the landing is nothing short of horrific.

‘Jemma, stay with me,’ Fitz is begging, cradling Jemma’s head in his lap. Ward’s gaze is drawn as though by magnetism to the blood rapidly soaking her shirt on her – 

On her abdomen.

The same place Skye had been hit. 

‘Fuck!’ Skye swears, making it up to the landing at last and pushing her way to the front. ‘Oh, _fuck._ ’

‘Come on J-Jem, come on – May, what do I –?’

‘Pressure on the wound,’ she commands, kneeling on the ground next to him. Fitz obeys immediately, pressing down with both hands. Jemma releases a whimper. 

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry Jemma, I’m s-sorry, I – ’

‘Keep pressing,’ Ward cuts in. Several pairs of eyes are on him in a flash, furious.

He ignores them. 

‘Listen, it’s going to hurt her but you have to – ’

‘ – Back off,’ May snarls, before turning back to Jemma. Hunter steps in front of Ward, but he just shoves him aside.

‘Is she –?’

‘Back. Off.’

‘Jemma?’ Fitz is asking, tears audible in his voice. The way he cradles her head is too gentle, too much for Ward to even _look_ at, and _he fucking shot her –_

‘I’m…?’ Jemma questions suddenly, feebly, the word coming out on an exhale. She looks at her bloodied hands in confusion before raising her gaze to Ward. ‘… What –?’

Ward’s shaking his head before he can even register what he’s seeing. ‘Simmons, I’m – ’ 

‘Get away you piece of _shit_!’ Skye growls, rushing him suddenly. ‘You did this! You monster, you fucking _shot her_ – ’

‘ – Skye…’ Hunter mumbles as he grabs her biceps from behind.

‘Let _go_ of me, Hunter,’ she cries out, thrashing wildly, and oh God, her _face –_  

‘Jemma?’ Fitz’s voice, imbued with renewed fear, breaks through their scuffle again, and they all turn to look. ‘Jemma? Please wake up. Can you hear me?’ He’s slapping gently at her face, looking up at May in sheer desperation. ‘M-May, she’s not… _Jemma?’_

Ward starts shaking his head again.

No. This can’t be…

_No._

‘Oh God,’ Skye sobs, all thoughts of Ward forgotten as she cups a hand over her mouth. ‘No – _Jemma._ No. No no no no no…’

‘No,’ Hunter mutters, expression stricken and gaze fixed upon the rapidly spreading pool of blood - of too much blood - on the ground. Ward watches it too, watches as _Jemma Simmons’ blood_ mingles with the dirt, the grime, the uncleanliness of the warehouse floor, and he’s positive that nothing has ever been more horrifying, more  _wrong_ , than this. This is wrong.

This is his fault.

Almost as though she’s been summoned, Jemma’s eyes flicker open, and her weak gaze latches onto Ward’s.

_(God.)_

‘Why?’ she breathes. Her voice is heartbroken. Ward’s going to be sick. 

‘Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay, Jem.’ Fitz is stroking the hair out of her face, his tears dripping onto the blood and tears already mingling on her cheeks, and then – 

Her head lolls to one side.

Her arms flop, lifeless.

_No._

Everything seems to move in slow motion then. Coulson drags Fitz away, ignoring his distraught protests. May smooths a hand down Jemma’s slackened cheek. Skye’s sobs grow louder still.

And Ward?

Ward _runs._

 

 

-

-

 

 

Since escaping from SHIELD, Ward hasn’t let anyone get the drop on him as he’s slept. It figures that it’s Jemma Simmons – standing unamused at the foot of his bed, arms folded in impatience – to break that streak. Once his lagging brain registers what he’s pointing he’s pistol at, he drops it back onto the mattress, rubbing at his eyes with one hand.

Weirdly enough, her reappearance only puts him at ease – in a defeated, resigned kind of way.

‘Here to taunt me again?’ he asks.

Jemma shrugs, and the motion looks so utterly foreign on her that Ward’s suddenly 100% sure this is a hallucination of some kind. The Jemma he knows – _knew,_ the Jemma he knew – doesn’t look like that. She just doesn’t. 

She also wouldn’t walk around with a huge bloodstain on her shirt. 

‘Not sure if I really feel like it today. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.’ 

He sighs. ‘Alright. This is cute and everything, but I really need to get some sleep.’

‘Oh, by all means,’ she replies, all sarcasm, waving a hand at him. Not one to surrender any ground, Ward stubbornly lies back down, but he finds he can’t close his eyes again – and how could he? There’s a dead girl walking around his room, staring at his belongings with a distant sense of maybe-interest. How could he block that out?

And what the _fuck_ is wrong with him?

‘I used to have a crush on you, you know,’ Jemma comments lightly, idly flipping through the file he’d left on the dresser next to his bed. Ward’s hands twitch at his sides, aching to reach out and protect the intel, but he doesn’t give in to the urge. 

Because she’s not really here. She’s _not_. 

(She bled out on the ground like some lowlife criminal.)

Ward swallows uncomfortably, deciding that if he won’t do anything to stop it, he might as well just roll with it for now. He’s apparently not getting any more sleep tonight, at any rate.

‘Yeah,’ he croaks out, clearing his throat. ‘I know. Or – Knew.’

‘Did you, now?’ she asks, but by the bored way she says it it’s clear the information isn’t surprising to her. That she’d always _known_ that he knew. Did she think he pitied her, he finds himself wondering. Was she embarrassed by it? Shifting a little, he tries to explain.

‘I couldn’t… Skye was the wildcard. You were predictable. She wasn’t.’

‘Ah,’ Jemma murmurs, leaning in closer to squint at a picture before closing the file altogether and turning to face him.

_Oh no._

‘Is that why you shot me then?’ she asks, her gaze searing into his in fiery accusation – and yet, by contrast, the calm in her voice is _chilling_. ‘Is that why you killed me, Ward?’

(That soft lilt will be his undoing.)

‘Go,’ he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Please. Just go.’ 

‘Not sure if I want to.’

‘Why are you even doing this?’ he snaps suddenly, glaring across at her. Her own eyes widen in disbelief – disbelief at his audacity? He doesn’t even know anymore. He’s worryingly unable to read her.

‘I’m not entirely sure. Closure, maybe. Entertainment?’ She folds her arms, a touch defensive. ‘Perhaps. Maybe I’m just curious.’

 _Jesus._  

Jemma eyes him speculatively for a few moments.

‘Curiosity sated?’ he prompts. She just smirks.

(The amusement doesn’t quite reach her eyes.)

‘For now,’ she promises, before turning and flouncing over to the door with way too much swing to her hips. Ward rubs his hands over his face, groaning in frustration. 

This is so much worse than he’d thought.

 

 

-

-

 

 

When Skye’s small body rams into him at full speed, only days later, he isn’t even that surprised. He’s been expecting it, actually, although the location leaves a lot to be desired. Rolling them so that she’s sitting on his chest in the alleyway’s garbage – the garbage they’d spilled all over the place when she careened into him, pushing him off the main road and out of sight – Skye goes straight for his throat. 

‘I’m going to kill you,’ she swears, tears pooling in her eyes. She’s just reaching around for her firearm when Ward manages to shove her off, both of them clambering to their feet at once.

Skye’s fury feels like it ignites something in the air around them.

‘She was the best of us!’ she yells, tears streaming down her face. Despite himself, his heart clenches at the sight of her like this; furious, distraught. Broken. He knows how close the two girls had been - even suspected they'd had a fling back on the Bus - so it's understandable, but it doesn't make it any easier to see. Skye sobs for a moment, barely even trying to sniff back the tears. ‘She was the best of _all_ of us and you fucking knew it.’

He did. He does.

He also has a deathwish, apparently, because he takes a step closer to her again, grabbing her biceps. ‘Skye, listen to me.’ 

‘Don’t you touch me,’ she snarls, writhing out of his arms. He grits his teeth. 

‘Just – I need to ask you something.’

‘You don’t get to anymore!’ Skye cries out, stubborn tears leaking from her eyes. She angrily backhands them. ‘Get that through your head. You don’t have the right! God, as if you could even – ’ 

 _‘Skye.’_

‘What?’ she hisses.

‘Did… did she die? Are…’ Ward hesitates, unnerved by her sudden silence, ‘… are you sure she’s… that she died?’

Skye just stares at him.

And stares. 

And _stares_. 

Then, with an agonised howl, she hurls her body at his again, fists pounding into his chest. He staggers backwards with the momentum, scrambling to grab her wrists, but he can feel her pain as though it’s his own. It seems to bleed out of her, filling the narrow space with its awful weight.

‘Fuck you!’ she swears, positively _vicious_. She pushes herself off him once more. ‘You know she’s dead. You know she’s fucking _gone_ because you murdered her!’

‘Skye, I think she’s still alive.’

A strangled cry rips from her throat.

‘How can you even _say_ that? No wait, don’t answer – _fuck,_ I mean, I know, after _everything_ you’ve done… but don’t you have any affection for her? Jesus Christ, not even a _bit?_ ’

‘Of course I do!’ he counters gruffly. She’s just staring at him now, untold pain only barely contained within her damp expression, and shaking her head in disbelief. Ward steps forward, needing her to _hear_ him, to understand. He needs her to just…

_Fuck._

If they’ve done something unnatural, something inhumane, to Jemma Simmons…

‘Think about it, Skye. Hasn’t SHIELD done it before?’ His voice is cracking in desperation but he doesn’t care now. He _can’t_. Something like pity flickers behind Skye’s gaze.

‘Yeah.’ She laughs, all breathy and bitter. ‘Yeah. They have. But that’s just the thing, Ward. You only get so many miracles.’ 

He hopes she’s wrong.

(He knows for a fact that he’s fresh out of miracles.)

‘I guess we got one more though, huh.’

‘Yeah?’ he flings back, watching as she brushes an old food wrapper from her jacket. ‘And what’s that?’ 

She shrugs, but the nonchalance of the motion strikes a stark contrast to the hatred burning in her eyes.

‘Grant Ward finally feels guilt.’

‘Skye…’ he begins. But she just shakes her head.

‘I’m not gonna kill you, Ward.’

A gunshot rings out. It takes a moment for him to connect the sound to the sudden explosion of pain in his leg, to the gun in her hand.

 _Motherf-_  

‘But leaving you alive, to suffer through this?’ She shakes her head again, although this time the gesture is all pity. Pity, and disgust. ‘God. That’s the worst punishment we’ve got.’

Her retreating footfalls echo around the alley as Ward clutches at his thigh, trying to stem the furious bleeding with his jeans. The bullet seems to have missed his femoral artery. He’s not deluded enough to think that was anything but intentional.

Skye wants him to live. To _suffer_ , like they are.

And for all that he wants to argue, he can’t find a single flaw in her logic.

 

 

-

-

 

 

Back in his safehouse’s shitty bathroom, Ward barely even spares her a glance. 

‘Don’t start,’ he warns, making a beeline for the first aid kit. Already sitting on the bathroom counter, Jemma swings her legs back and forth. It’s so painfully innocent and childlike. Ward can’t bring himself to look directly at it.

 _One problem at a time, Grant._  

‘Do you need a hand with – ?’ 

‘ – No.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches her recoil, disbelieving. ‘No need to get snippy. You’re clumsy with stitches, Ward. Always have been.’ 

‘Yeah, well.’ 

He shucks his ruined jeans and starts to clean off the excess blood, letting that hang in the air as he grits his teeth and delves into the wound. Jemma makes a kind of _tsk_ -ing sound of disapproval. The pain gives him something to focus on _other_ than that, though, for which he’s incredibly grateful.

‘Wait, I’m sorry: you’re not actually afraid that _I’ll_ hurt _you,_ are you?’ He doesn’t answer, just continues to dig around in his leg for the bullet. Jemma huffs out an incredulous laugh. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. God, I can’t believe I’m the only one who gets to hear this.’

Pinching his flesh uncomfortably, Ward grunts. ‘I think I liked your whole _Angel of Death_ bit better.’

‘Yes, well. That one’s out of your hands, unfortunately.’

‘Clearly,’ he grumbles, finally finding purchase on the bullet and tugging it out of the wound. Jemma winces when the bullet becomes visible, one hand on her bloodstain and prodding distractedly at her abdomen, but otherwise remains silent as he sets about cleaning and stitching the flesh back up. At one point, he lets his head loll backwards and allows himself a few deep breaths – his only real acknowledgement of pain – but when he refocuses his attention, it’s to find Jemma holding out a bottle of spirits, her eyes broadcasting a clear offer.

She couldn’t do that if she was a hallucination. Surely she couldn’t. 

Surely.

 _You’re in a lot of pain,_ a little voice reminds him _. Hallucinations aren’t uncommon in these situations._

Ugh. Fuck it.

He rolls his eyes and grabs the spirits, taking a generous swig. 

 _One problem at a time._  

When he’s finished his stitching he drops the instruments, looking up at her with a sardonic _ta-da!_ face. ‘So. What’s the verdict? Up to your standards?’ 

Jemma sniffs.

‘Hardly. But that’s not my problem.’ 

Ward shrugs. ‘Guess not.’

Both of them fall silent, taking in the dingy old bathroom around them. Eventually, Jemma clears her throat with a dainty little cough, chancing a look at him before averting her gaze once more.

‘I’m a good person, Ward.’

He blinks.

_What?_

She fidgets a little. ‘Even good people have their limits.’

‘You’re not even…’ he shakes his head.

‘… Real?’ she finishes drily. When Ward says nothing, she jumps off the counter and steps in front of him, forcing him to look at her. Her gaze is expectant, so he rolls his eyes and dries off his hands.

‘I killed you,’ he explains, ‘and this is my brain’s screwed up way of punishing me for it. But what I can’t work out is _why_.’

Jemma raises her eyebrows, something like pity in her expression but it’s tinged by that hint of cruelty she seems to bring to their every interaction now.

‘You can’t figure out why your brain is punishing you for murdering me in cold blood? Oh, come on now, _Grant._ You’re losing your touch.’ 

‘No, I mean - why this?’ He gestures at her vaguely, and she tilts her head, quizzical. ‘This nice… thing. It made more sense when you were taunting me.’

‘Did it, now?’

She seems almost amused now, and he wishes he could see it as such. He wishes he could feel better about her experiencing some sort of joy, even if it _is_ at his expense. But the shitty fluorescent globe above them is flickering, that annoying sort of infinitesimal flashing they seem to have sometimes, and the weird lighting highlights the pallor of her cheeks, the macabre stain across her midsection. It’s a clear reminder.

There’s nothing amusing about any of this. 

Ward blinks, looking up at the ceiling.

‘Makes sense that my mind would use the cruellest version of you, try to convince me I corrupted you as well as hurting you. But you… being nice? Trying to get closure?’ He shakes his head. ‘Just doesn’t make sense.’ 

Jemma seems to think about that, before grinning up at him somewhat ruefully. He has no choice but to return her gaze.

(Well. He has a choice. He’s just never really been the selfless kind, is all.)

‘Doesn’t it?’ she offers. ‘I’m dead, Ward. There’s no coming back from that. I don’t _get_ closure.’ She starts to back away towards the door. ‘Your mind is showing me the things of which I was deprived. By _you._ ’

Ward feels some of the fight leave his body. Because she’s making sense; of _course_ she is. He just isn’t sure he can endure her being _nice._ The cruelty was deserved; the cruelty was punishment. But this? Fuck, how can he possibly cope with her understanding, her borderline _forgiveness_ , after what he’s done?

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He’s hit with an errant memory out of the blue, a whisper of days long gone. _Got to kill them with kindness, Ward,_ Jemma had remarked, years ago when the air was lighter and the sky was endless and things were simpler, her eyes dancing with levity and humour. If only she’d known then what he knows now. She’d have felt as nauseous, as disgusted, as _he_ currently does. She’d never have looked at him with that softened gaze in the first place, and he wouldn’t know what he was missing. 

Suddenly, he’s furious.

Leaning back on the doorframe, Jemma is still considering her words, oblivious to his turmoil. ‘It’s rather genius, actually. In terms of efficacy.’

‘Yeah, well. Forgive me for not judging this whole thing on fucking efficacy.’ 

 _That_ gets her attention. ‘Excuse me?’

He storms through the door, not daring to even look at her as he passes.

‘Hey!’ she yells, stopping him in his tracks. When he turns to face her again, the quiet understanding of before is gone, white-hot rage in its place. 

Good. He can work with that.

‘What is your problem?’

‘It wasn’t cold blood,’ he blurts out, surprising even himself with his vehemence. 

( _This_ is what he chooses to focus on?) 

He shakes his head. ‘You were – caught in the crossfire. I never… I don’t want to hurt you. Didn’t. Whatever.’

Jemma is silent for a long, long time. She looks almost… stunned? Her eyes are wide, lips slightly parted. Ward just throws his hands up in exasperation.

‘What? No witty comeback?’

‘No I… I think I just worked it out. Why you’ve refused to show remorse in all of this.’

‘Yeah?’ he demands, still feeling his breath come in hard and fast with his rage. ‘By all means – explain away, Dr Simmons. Tell me what makes me tick.’

She starts to walk over to him, step by slow step, catching his gaze and holding it. ‘Ward. It doesn’t _matter_ whether you meant it or not. It doesn’t. Not to the people you hurt.’

With her gradual approach, the anger clearly reigniting within her, he feels his own anger seep out of him.

(This. This is what he deserves.)

‘Do you think your intentions matter to me? Did they matter when I was bleeding out on the ground?’ The steel is returning to her voice now, that firm, uncompromising quality from before, and Ward’s stomach swoops unpleasantly at the sound. It lurches even more when he sees her hands go to her shirt above the bloodstain, slowly lifting it up.

‘No!’ he snaps. Her hands freeze; Ward just shakes his head. ‘N- stop.’

‘Why? Don’t you want to see?’ she asks sweetly, and there it is again. That innocent, pretty lilt of hers, all laced with bitter venom. The honey in the deadly mess of the beehive. She leans closer, and he instinctively shuffles back.

Her expression turns borderline predatory.

‘Don’t you want to see the mark you left when you decided I don’t have the right to _live_?’ 

‘Please,’ he asks – quietly, simply. Please. _Please._

_Don’t make me look at the evidence._

‘When you decided, not even for the first time, that I was worth _nothing_? When you shot me in the gut, just like you did Skye?’

‘Jemma – ’

‘Don’t you _dare_ say my name.’ Her eyes flash angrily.

‘It wasn’t…’ he shakes his head, ‘Skye was…’

She’s toe-to-toe with him now. He swears he can feel the sheer force of her rage, her hatred.

‘Yeah. We’ve all heard it, Ward.’

‘Think I liked it better when you were just trying to get closure,’ he tries. She leans in closer still.

‘Well, I think I don’t give a _fuck_ what’s more convenient for you, actually. _You shot me._ ’

It hits him, then. Here they stand: eyes meeting ferociously, rage bubbling over, breathing laboured, chests rising and falling in some sort of fucked up harmony that no one really planned, no one even _wanted_ , and yet here it is; battling away in the quiet and the seclusion. It’s just them, this shitty place in the middle of nowhere, and the ghosts of all their decisions. All their mistakes.

Here they stand, and one of them might not even _be_ here. 

(Ward damn near crumples.) 

‘I know,’ he murmurs – gut-wrenchingly honest, for maybe the first time in years. And she knows it.

They’re frozen like that for a moment longer, the reality of it all sinking deep into their bones. And then –

And then she turns on her heel and storms out, without another word.

 

 

-

-

 

 

(Here’s the thing: Ward can put a stop to this at any time. He knows that. All it takes is a quick check of nearby security footage on any of the designated dates. If he wants to be doubly sure, he can get a third party to look at the footage as well. It’s an easy fix. 

He just… 

He can’t bring himself to do it. 

He can’t shatter the illusion. Whether she’s real or he’s entirely lost his shit, he’s just not ready to deal with the implications. He deserves to be haunted by her, even if she’s not actively behind it.

And then, of course, there’s the other thing. The selfish thing; the one there’s no point even attempting to deny anymore. 

That maybe – just maybe – he’s enjoying her company too much, even like this, to put an end to it.)

 

 

-

-

 

 

Ward’s secretly been hoping he never has to see Fitz again, never has to look him in the eye, but the world has never really existed to grant his wishes like that. In reality, it’s only another day before they run into each other at an old Hydra stronghold. 

(He hadn’t even realised SHIELD was casing the place. Maybe arguably-real-Jemma was right after all; maybe he _is_ losing his touch.)

‘You,’ Fitz spits out when he sees him, raising his gun. He’s shaking again, but Ward knows that this time, it’s not his brain injury. This time, it’s not nerves, nor is it fear.

This time?

It’s sheer, unadulterated _rage._  

‘Fitz,’ Ward begins, raising his hands in surrender. ‘I’m just going to walk away, and we can both go back to – ’

‘ – You. Deserve. To die.’

He shrugs. ‘Maybe. It’s not going to be you who does it, though.’

Fitz laughs, but there’s absolutely no humour in it. It’s a cold, cold sound.

‘Yeah? Try me.’

‘She wouldn’t want this for you, man.’

‘No!’ he cries out, the barrel of the gun he has pointed at Ward wavering around wildly as he trembles. ‘You don’t g-get to… to even _mention –_ ’

‘Shh. I know.’

‘Don’t shush me!’ His hands drop to his sides, gun hanging limply in one hand. ‘How am I s’posed to c-care about a… a world, without her in it?’

It’s not a good time to ask. It’s not.

It’s _not_.

But then, Ward doesn’t have a whole heap of time on his hands, does he? 

(Fuck. Fitz’ll kill him for this.)

‘Hey man, listen. You… you used to see her. Didn’t you?’ Ward begins, as tentatively as he can manage. As it turns out, judging by Fitz’s face, that’s not a whole lot. ‘After…’ 

Fitz’s whole body has gone rigid. His eyes are _ablaze_.

‘Who.’ 

Ward blinks, hands dropping a little. ‘Sorry?’

‘Who told you?’ 

_Oh._

‘Fitz…’

‘Who. Told. You.’

‘It doesn’t – ’

‘Don’t.’ He’s fuming, literally shaking with his fury once more. ‘Don’t you – don’t you dare s-say it doesn’t ma-matter. Don’t you _dare_.’

‘Do you still see her?’ 

‘Get out.’ 

‘No, Fitz – ’

‘Get out!’ he bellows.

‘Alright, alright, take it easy.’ 

He hears Hunter’s voice then, calling out to see if Fitz is okay, and when other voices begin to chime in as well, Ward turns and makes a hasty exit.

(Fitz never really gave him an answer but the unhealthy pallor to his ex-teammate’s face, Ward thinks, might just be answer enough.)

 

 

-

-

 

 

He hadn’t expected to see her again after their argument. It’s not a conclusion he’s come by lightly; he doesn’t have a clue where to even _begin_ deciding how he feels about it.

But then he opens the door to the twelfth storey apartment he’s going to use as a sniper’s nest, and there she is: over by the window, arms wrapped around her middle as though willpower alone is enough to stop the cold from seeping through her thin blouse.

Her thin, bloodied blouse.

His breath catches in his throat.

‘About time you showed up,’ Jemma quips, as though she’s simply continuing a conversation of theirs. As though nothing bleak has transpired between them. Ward forces his feet to co-operate and carry him over to where she sits; she shivers as he approaches. 

‘It’s bloody freezing up here.’ 

‘Have you considered investing in a jacket?’ he asks, setting his gear down with a gentle _thump._  

She says nothing to that, only stares back at him with eyes that are much too knowing, and that’s that, he guesses. It’s distracting, trying to assemble a rifle with her perched next to him, that keen, eagle-eyed gaze of hers watching his every move. Ward supposes that’s her endgame here, though, so he mostly ignores it. 

He has a job to do, after all.

‘Is this how you did it?’ she asks after a while, her voice endlessly curious. He clunks another piece of the rifle into place.

‘Did what?’

‘All of it.’ That earns her a quizzical glance, so she rolls her eyes and elaborates. ‘I kept trying to shut down, back when I was at Hydra. Shut off my emotions. I used to think, _if only I could be like Ward. If only I could figure out how he managed to do it._ ’ 

 _If only I’d ever figured it out for myself,_ Ward thinks. Straightening up, he sighs.

(He doesn’t look at her.)

‘Do we have to do this?’

‘Do what?’ she asks innocently. When he says nothing, she huffs, dropping the charade. ‘See, that’s my problem. I keep daring to believe you might actually feel _guilty_ about any of this. I keep hoping for the best, looking for your best. Even after everything.’ Her left hand tugs absently at the bloodied patch on her blouse. ‘What does that make me?’

Ward knows he shouldn’t engage, but he’s well beyond reason at this point.

‘It makes you Jemma Simmons,’ he mutters, looking at a point over her shoulder. She purses her lips, lifts her chin.

‘Well. Jemma Simmons was gunned down for her troubles. Perhaps a lifestyle change is in order.’

 _You prevented that from happening,_ that little voice reminds him, reprimands him. _You took that option away from her. You_ robbed _her._

(Really, who needs Jemma’s taunting when his own brain is doing this good a job all on its own?)

He clears his throat, folds his arms.

‘You’re being nice today,’ Ward notes. Jemma quirks an eyebrow, a clear sign to pick his next words _very_ carefully, so he turns to fiddle with the rifle again. ‘Nicer than you have been, anyway. Maybe she’s not gone after all.’

Jemma swallows audibly.

‘Maybe she’s just saying goodbye,’ she murmurs, her eyes downcast. And even though he gets what she’s saying, knows her meaning – saying goodbye to who she was, to who she used to be – part of him can’t help but wonder if this is her goodbye to _him._ Only… he doesn’t think he’d ever really get that privilege. Kinda pissed that one away when he left her for dead at the bottom of the ocean. Then shot her. Bullets can be pretty uncompromising like that. 

Say what you will, he’s one of the biggest contributors to this After of the Jemma _Before_.

That sort of shit doesn’t ever really warrant forgiveness.

With a heavy exhale, he drops down behind the scope of the rifle, ready to get to work. He tries to ignore the pang of fear in his chest when Jemma stands in response, making her way over to the door.

Is this it?

Is this where he loses her for good?

‘Oh: you’re wasting your time, by the way,’ she tosses back over her shoulder. ‘He won’t show.’

_What?_

Ward swivels to look at her. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Sanchez,’ Jemma states, all matter-of-fact. ‘He got spooked. He’ll reschedule for the auxiliary drop point later today.’

_How does she –?_

‘You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t exactly ditch everything to follow your intel.’

‘Ah. Because I’m not real, correct?’ A corner of her mouth tugs upwards into an uncomfortable smile – really more of a cringe than anything else. She sniffs. ‘Suit yourself.’

And then, she really _is_ gone.

 

 

-

-

 

 

Sanchez doesn’t show.

Driven by – well, he doesn’t even _know_ what, anymore - Ward goes to the second drop point and settles in to wait.

Within an hour, Sanchez is there.

Just as she said.

 

 

-

-

 

 

She’s waiting in his apartment when he gets back from the stakeout.

‘How did you know about Sanchez?’ Ward demands, storming over to her. Jemma’s expression is less than impressed.

‘Uh-huh. Anyway, I need you to answer something for me.’

‘I asked first,’ he presses, crowding her. ‘Sanchez.’

‘If you could go back,’ Jemma continues, pushing past him and completely disregarding anything he’s said. Ward can only gape after her.

‘Simmons – ’

‘ – Yes, yes, we all heard you, Ward,’ she snaps, whirling back around to face him. ‘Sanchez. Yes. I _get_ it. But you have to answer something first.’

He sighs. ‘Okay. Go.’

‘If you could go back, right now, and stop yourself from shooting me. Would you?’

Ward just stares at her, utterly perplexed, because is she seriously positing time travel right now? _Her?_ Jemma Simmons?

(Although... it _would_ explain a lot...)

Growing impatient, the girl in question rolls her eyes. 

‘Would you – ?’

‘Yes,’ he interrupts, not even thinking about his answer but instantly understanding it to be true. Jemma tilts her head, considering him.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes, okay? Yes.’

‘Hmm. Guilt’s a funny thing, isn’t it?’ she ponders aloud, and it’s jarring, Ward thinks. He knows how much this woman has struggled with guilt, buckling under the weight of it. Hearing her speak of it so flippantly makes him want to pinch himself, or dunk his head in cold water, or – _anything_ , whatever it takes to jolt him from this Bizarro world.

But he doesn’t get that.

_(You only get so many miracles.)_

‘But what happens, I wonder, when the guilt runs dry? When you feel that the debt is settled?’

Her gaze is deliberate but Ward is nothing but confused, shaking his head at her. ‘I don’t follow.’

Jemma steps closer to him again.

‘What I’m saying, Ward, is that my life wouldn’t continue to mean that much to you if you went back. You’d stop yourself from shooting me that one time, maybe save my life a couple more times, but eventually the guilt would go away.’ Her gaze bores into his. ‘Eventually, I’d no longer be your responsibility. You could do the same thing again.’

‘This is a weirdly specific hypothetical.’

‘Ugh, Ward, just – ’

‘No.’ He shakes his head resolutely. ‘No. You’re wrong.’

Jemma leans back at that, eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s not guilt,’ he insists. He runs a hand through his hair. ‘You being dead… it’s wrong. It just feels wrong, all the fucking time. I – I know that, now.’

She’s staring at him, shocked. It’s her expression, more than anything, that compels him to continue.

‘That doesn’t just expire.’

And there it is: all laid out bare for her to see, to pick apart, to _use_. It feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room.

It feels like they’re finally, _finally_ on the level.

Jemma scrutinises him the way he used to see her scrutinise samples in the lab, all that time ago, but for the first time, it feels like she’s not going to find something distasteful. Even if she does, he knows there’s nothing more he can say about it. Nothing more he can do.

He’s got nothing else to offer.

Her verdict is her verdict here, and he thinks he might finally be okay with it. He might finally be able to cope with this being the end.

And then, her expression has to go get all intense and shuttered on him.

 _Oh no._  

‘Meet me tonight,’ Jemma orders, her eyes wild and her voice low and urgent. ‘Sanchez’s second drop point. 8pm.’

‘What – ’

‘If you want answers,’ she snaps, ‘and if you’re telling the truth, then you’ll meet me there. End of discussion.’

And not for the first time in recent days, Ward can do nothing but watch her leave, and wonder if she’s even real. If she was _ever_ even real.

If that’s been her goal all along, then this little exercise has been a resounding success.

 

 

-

-

 

 

By around 8:30 that night, Ward understands that he’s caught up in some serious shit.

Some _serious,_ serious shit.

As he groggily regains consciousness, his cheek pressed to the cold concrete (they fucking jumped him out of nowhere; he never even saw it coming) he quickly takes stock of the situation. It’s not markedly worse than it’d been when they knocked him out, all things considered. He’s alone, still in the plain old room where they’d gotten him, and yeah, he’s face-down on the ground with his hands and feet bound, but things could still be much, much worse. 

And they _have_ been.

So he’ll get out of this one. He always does.

That’s when he registers the voices, just outside the room. Straining to concentrate through his whirly, unsteady mind, he narrows his eyes and tries to listen in. Then almost jolts sideways in shock.

‘Well, Dr Simmons, I must say: I had my doubts when you first approached me with this. But your results don’t lie.’

No.

That voice. Oh, _God,_ he knows that voice.

Sunil Bakshi. 

Conversing amicably with Jemma.

Ward’s eyes flutter closed.

_Shit._

She’s handed him over.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Jemma replies, smugness dripping from her every syllable.

‘So it would seem. The Director will be well pleased with your work here. I’m certain he’ll be more than happy to overlook certain… transgressions.’

Transgressions?

Transgressions like her previous work with SHIELD? Like her most recent work with SHIELD?

Shit shit shit shit _shit –_

Ward tugs at his restraints, testing out their flexibility. It’s no use – he’s secured tight – but that doesn’t stop him from trying trying _trying_ to break free, to do anything but stare his new reality square in the face.

(She can’t be with Hydra. She can’t be. She _can’t_ be _.)_

‘Actually, Mr Bakshi, there is _one_ thing,’ Ward hears her venture, hesitance in her voice. He freezes in his escape attempts. ‘Could you… I mean – ’

‘ – Dr Simmons?’

‘Do you think I could perhaps have a moment alone with my asset? Just to consolidate, of course.’

Ward can only imagine the greedy look on Bakshi’s face.

‘Of course. Take your time, but knock on the door when you’re done.’

‘Yes, sir.’

There’s a shuffling of feet; the door unlatches, Ward cranes his neck up, and – 

There she is. 

Jemma Simmons.

Wearing a fresh, clean blouse. 

And Ward? Ward’s jaw just _drops_.

Because of all things, it’s the blouse that clinches it for him. Suddenly, the notable lack of a run-in with May makes a whole lot of sense, all at once. An odd sort of calm settles over Ward; he almost smiles with it.

_Well. He’ll be damned._

This entire time that she’s been tormenting him, she’s only been trying to finish her mission: developing an asset. 

Developing _him._

It’s – 

Fuck. It’s genius. 

By now, Bakshi would’ve seen that any personal ties she might have to one Grant Ward are only there to be exploited. She can manipulate him into doing whatever she so chooses – or, more importantly for Bakshi, whatever Hydra tells her to do. Hell, Ward’s gone all over the place for her, meeting her every request, all without even checking to see if she’s real. And then, he went and pledged allegiance beyond merely settling some sort of debt.

Not only that, but he’s followed through. Because he’s here, isn’t he? He showed up. He just proved himself the perfect asset. 

Or, rather: he proved _Jemma Simmons_ the perfect asset. 

Allowing her to simply walk back into Hydra and pick right back up where she left off.

_God._

Ward isn’t even angry. He knows that he should be – that he has every right to be, given the circumstances – but he isn’t.

He’s just impressed.

She played him. Jemma Simmons fucking played him, like she was born to do it. At some point, while they were all looking the other way, this girl became a _spy._

‘See,’ she begins now, an air of forced nonchalance about her. ‘I keep thinking about what you said – about how believing the best of people makes me who I am. And you know what? I’m not sure that you’re entirely right on that one.’ 

Ward doesn’t even try to stop the grin from spreading across his face this time.

Look at this. Look at Jemma Simmons trying to convince him she truly _is_ Hydra. And she must have enlisted May's help, getting intel to keep her one step ahead of him, and she would've seen what he was working on that time in his bedroom, and then all those questions about shutting off emotions...

Incredible. 

‘See, I am,’ he says. 

That pulls her up short. ‘I’m sorry?’ 

As much as he can in these restraints, Ward shrugs. ‘You heard me.’

She pins him with an evaluating look, one that he meets head-on. He can see the exact moment she realises that he understands it, understands her play here, and something in her expression falters.

His heart sinks.

Oh, _shit_. She’d been hoping to keep him in the dark, to keep him believing her Hydra. Of course. It makes perfect sense, and there’s a lot of merit in that plan. And now he’s rattled her, just when everything had been slotting into place. 

He needs her to tune in again.

Ward watches her turn to leave, waiting until she’s right by the door to make his move. ‘Skye and Fitz don’t know,’ he calls out.

Jemma stops in her tracks.

 _Bingo._  

‘Do they?’

‘Not for the moment, no,’ she confirms, a little uncertain and yeah, she’s off her game. He needs her back on her game. He needs to push her.

So he mock-pouts at her. 

‘But Jemma, they’re distraught.’

Jemma’s silent. Then:

‘I know,’ she murmurs.

‘Still think you’re doing the right thing?’

‘Oh, stop it with your judging,’ she snaps angrily. She storms back over to him, much to his delight. _There she is._ ‘Because guess what, Ward? It still happened. You still shot me.’

He grins up at her. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he parrots, ‘Not to the people you hurt.’

‘What about the people _you_ hurt?’ she hisses, yanking up her shirt and finally revealing the extent of the damage to him. His breath catches in his throat at the sight. It's not pretty; clearly whoever had saved her life had had to operate, because her torso is peppered with various surgical scars and bruises. But somehow, it doesn’t make her look weak, or injured. Somehow, when she’s trembling with anger like this and her eyes are blazing and alight with fury, she paints a whole different picture.

This is a survivor. This is a _fighter._

This is Jemma fucking Simmons.

‘What are you planning?’ he wonders aloud, almost to himself. Jemma drops to her knees beside to him, her lips pressed into a furious, tense line.

‘They will _burn_ ,’ she swears, and it’s absolutely genius because to anyone listening, she’s talking about SHIELD, about Skye and Fitz, about some imagined betrayal. But that’s not what it is to Ward. To her. Nope; he can _see_ it.

All of her destruction, all of her fire – she’s directing it at Hydra. She's going to consume it from the inside out.

(And say what you will about Grant Ward, but he has _always_ loved the flames licking at his heels as he runs.) 

‘So,’ Jemma prompts, cocking her head to the side, those pouty lips of hers twisted into a pleased smirk. For the first time since he fired that fateful shot, the sight doesn’t sicken Ward.

Now, it only excites him.

‘You ready to put your money where your mouth is?’ she asks, quirking an eyebrow. Before he can answer, she leans in close, her lips hovering just by his ear.

Fuck.

‘Make sure I don’t get dead.’

It’s an order. A goddamn _order_.

And it’s one he’s never been more certain he’ll obey.

(God. She isn't even controlling him, here. He's a willing participant. Unbelievable.)

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he swears.

Jemma rises to her feet, brushing herself off calmly before sauntering over to the door. Ward finds he can barely even care about his current position of relative powerlessness because wow. _Wow._

This is happening. 

This is really, really happening.

‘Oh, and Ward?’ she calls out, all the markings of an afterthought in her voice and yet when he catches her eye, he’s met with a positively wild gaze. She smirks again. ‘ _I_ call the shots, now.’ 

 _Damn._  

He only has enough time to raise his eyebrows – he’s not sure he’s even capable of being any prouder, even though he knows he can’t truly stake a claim to any of this – before she’s knocking on the door, signalling to Bakshi’s men.

‘Take him away,’ she tells them, bossiness written into the very lines of her body. 

Several black-clad men approach him, one of them brandishing a large syringe, and yeah, he puts up a bit of a fight – they’d be expecting him to, after all. Still, the last thing Grant Ward sees before he loses consciousness is a Jemma Simmons well and truly in her element, barking orders at an entire unit of Hydra henchmen.

Yep, he thinks happily, the blackness pulling him down once more. He’ll brave the flames for this woman. For her.

With pleasure.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Black Heart' by Carly Rae Jepsen. I have no idea how I felt about this one by the end, with the Ward POV and all, so I'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> Find me @imperfectlychaotic on tumblr.


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